


I'll Fix It

by ABCDEFanfiction



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Angst, Assault, Grandpa Rick Sanchez (Rick and Morty), Graphic Description, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Miscarriage, Murder, Other, Pregnancy, Rape, Sexual Assault, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-04 16:51:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10995003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ABCDEFanfiction/pseuds/ABCDEFanfiction
Summary: Rick takes care of Morticia.





	1. Blood on the Sheet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morticia wakes up to find herself bleeding.

Morticia wakes up late at night to the feeling of something warm and sticky under her back. It’s a somewhat familiar feeling. Her periods are usually pretty heavy and she bleeds through a lot during the night unless she sets an alarm to get up in the middle of the night and change her pad. 

Tonight, however, she hadn’t done that. Because she isn’t on her period. In fact, she should be about five months away from having her next one. The baby isn’t due for another five months.

Morticia turns on the light on her nightstand and draws back the covers with a shaky hand. Her eyes brim with tears and a cold feeling washes into her chest at the sight of dark red blood on her sheets. She knew it wasn’t ideal from the start, her doctor had warned her that her fifteen year old body wasn’t certifiably ready to carry a baby to term. When she made it past the first trimester, she’d breathed a sigh of relief. Now, her breaths come in erratic gasps between her sobs as she climbs carefully out of bed. 

She clutches at her still-flat stomach and silently cries as she strips off her pajamas and puts on fresh clothing as quickly as she can. As quickly as her wracking sobs will allow. She finds a few pads in one of Summer’s bathroom drawers. She wears one and stuffs the rest into the pocket of her sweatpants. Her stomach hurts but she can’t tell if it’s from what’s happening or from her own anxiety.

Morticia pads down the hallway in her penguin slippers. She goes downstairs and to the door that always stays locked. She knows this door. She knows it’s the only door in the house that doesn’t creak when it opens. 

She pounds on this door. She pounds on it and prays that the rest of her family doesn’t wake up from the sound. “Rick,” she chokes out between sobs. “Rick, I- I need you.”

An old man with a weathered face and blue bedhead opens the door. He rubs sleep from his eyes and glares down at Morticia, who can’t bring herself to look up from his shoes. She feels wet between her legs and she knows that she’s still bleeding heavily.

“Rick, I’m bleeding, s-something’s wrong,” she says into her hands, trying to stifle her own sobs. Her hands are wet. Really wet. Her cheeks are, too. “I need you to drive me t-to the hospital, please, Rick…”

Rick is grabbing his coat from the hook just inside his bedroom. He’s suddenly alert and his eyes soften considerably as his heart begins to pound. He wraps his coat around Morticia’s slumped shoulders and shuts his bedroom door behind himself as he walks behind the young girl, one hand on her shoulder as she blinds herself with tears. She doesn’t really hear it, between the ringing in her ears and her racing thoughts, but Rick says something quietly. 

“It- it’s okay. I’m here.”

He takes her out into the garage. She heads for the ship, but Rick squeezes her shoulder affectionately through his jacket and steers her toward the counter. She doesn’t seem to have the breath to ask why he’s not taking her to the hospital. Or, maybe she knows that it’s already too late for that sort of medicine to help her.

He sits in his chair to level himself with Morticia and gently takes hold of her hand, trying to look into her eyes. She keeps them shut tightly and her other hand on her mouth, still trying to quiet herself. She’s taking ragged breaths through her fingers. Rick runs his fingers slowly through her bedhead. “It’s okay, M-Morticia. Take a deep breath.” His voice is soft, like a real doctor’s would be. “I’ll f-fix it, baby. Don’t worry.”

He thanks himself for being sober tonight as he stands back up and guides Morticia to the edge of the counter. “I’m gonna lift you up and- and sit you on the counter. This should only take a few minutes. Don’t m-move from the counter, baby.” And Rick does. He lifts her from under her arms and very gently sets her down on the counter. She draws his coat closer against herself, her eyes still closed and her stomach still in knots. Is her baby in knots, too, she wonders, as her chin drips like a downspout in a thunderstorm.

Rick rests his hand on her knee, a small gesture of compassion and assuredness. But then it’s gone, and Rick’s moving so quickly that Morticia couldn’t keep up with him even if her eyes were open. He’s moving from cabinet to cabinet, shelf to shelf, grabbing odds and ends and trying not to slam them down on his workbench too hard. He’s snipping off the end off one of Morticia’s hairs. He’s scraping the blood sample from when he killed Morticia’s rapist. He’s adding this and that and he’s sure he’s never rushed so much in his entire life. 

He’s jabbing the keys on his computer with shaking fingers and swearing to a god he doesn’t believe in. Morticia sits huddled in on herself and tries not to move too much. When she moves, she feels herself bleed more. 

“What’s happening, Rick?” she whispers. Salty tears rush onto her parted lips and she tastes the sea as it pours out of her.

“Shhh, baby,” Rick croons, staring daggers at the machine that sits on his workbench and whirs with effort. 

They both know what’s happening. Rick doesn’t need to say the word ‘miscarriage.’ Morticia isn’t an idiot, and especially not about this. He’s seen the books that have collected at Morticia’s bedside over the past few months. He’s heard some of the questions she asks her prenatal doctors, using words that Rick didn’t know until he was at least twice Morticia’s age.

Rick taps his foot and runs an anxious hand through his hair. He shivers against the cold wind that blows in through the crack between the floor and the garage door. The machine dings and spits out a vial with about a tablespoon of purple liquid in it. Rick’s hand is on the vial before the machine has completely let go of it, and then he’s falling back into his chair and pedaling over to sit in front of Morticia. He presses the vial into her hand and speaks just loud enough to be heard above her quiet sobs. 

“This’ll stop the bleeding. Can you swallow?” Rick would probably make a sex joke out of that phrasing if he wasn’t so worried. 

Morticia nods. Brings the vial to her lips, throws her head back, and downs it all in one fell swallow. For a moment, she grips the vial so tightly in her hand that her knuckles turn white and her pulse can be felt in each of her fingertips. Then a calmness settles into her, starting at her belly. It crawls its way through her veins until it reaches her fingers, and then her grip relaxes and the glass vial slips from her hand entirely. Rick grabs it from its quick descent and puts it down on the counter as Morticia slumps forward. She’s stopped crying, and her stomach doesn’t hurt anymore. Maybe it’s okay. By some miracle of Rick’s science, maybe her baby wasn’t in that mess of blood on her sheets. Is it all okay now, she wonders, her head lolling to the side with a sort of sleepiness she’s never felt before.

Rick keeps her upright with a hand on her shoulder. 

“It’s okay,” he croons to her, in a voice that sounds like it’s getting farther and farther away. “I’m here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on Tumblr @sin-aringiscaring for updates on my work or to request a fic :)


	2. Blood on the Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick makes Morticia's rapist bleed. Prequel to the first chapter.

Morticia kisses his cinnamon lips and enjoys every moment that his warm hands glide up her shirt. She’s never felt so comfortable. She’s never been this open. Her mouth opens willingly to his tongue, her bra unclasps and falls open in his hands. He’s undressing her, slowly, and kissing along all her sharp edges, and she feels like a princess. He grinds up against her and she gasps, falls slightly forward and catches herself by planting her hands in the middle of his chest. 

“Do y-you like this?” she purrs, eyebrows raised, as she plays her finger over his nipple through his shirt. He chuckles and pulls her down to kiss him, his hands trailing up her now bare back. He pulls her tighter, tighter, until it feels like she can’t breathe, her chest against his and his mouth on her throat. She shivers, exhales hard against his shoulder, and he rolls his hips against hers again. Through her jeans, it’s uncomfortable; the button is digging into her stomach as she leans over. When he pinches her nipple she squirms and sighs happily. When he shifts to put her on her back she laughs awkwardly. When he presses down against her and grinds against her rhythmically she swallows thickly and feels her heart pound.

“You like this,” he growls, grinning, as he wraps his fingers around her wrists and leans down to kiss her. She chuckles awkwardly again, turning her head and starting to try to sit up. He uses his entire body to shove her back down again. “You like this,” he repeats. “You told me.” She struggles against his grip on her wrists and shakes her head, her stomach churning. He pulls back slightly and looks into her eyes, a low sound in his chest. A cross between a laugh and a snarl. “Don’t act like you don’t want this, Morticia,” he says quietly, his breath suddenly less like cinnamon and more like mace. “You practically died when I took off your bra. I can feel how wet you are for me.” He slips his free hand into her underwear and she shuts her eyes and clenches her jaw, a tiny whimper bubbling up her throat. He snarls again and exhales hard against her throat. “See? God… I’ll fuck you so good, beautiful, don’t worry.”

He works quickly and Morticia is soon under him while he lines himself up with her. He’s crooning into her ear and she’s struggling against him in weak bursts of energy but for the most part she tries to stay still. It’ll hurts worse if she struggles. He keeps whispering that into her ear so it must be true. She feels him enter her and she feels tears roll down her temple and onto the pillow. She keeps her head turned to the side as he works in her, over and over, with warm, wet kisses all over her chest and his grip tightening on her when she squirms against the pain. She thinks about how she walked two miles to his house. She thinks about how she met him. She thinks of all the reasons she likes him. She thinks of these things and she cries harder.

When he starts to come, she struggles harder and cries out. She starts to yell, no, no, don’t come inside me. He presses into her so deeply that she yelps, and he covers her mouth. He moans as he finishes, and then looks deep, too deep, into her eyes.

“That wasn’t too bad, was it?” he asks, smiling sweetly and brushing a stray lock of hair out of her face. She stares up at him, his hand still on her mouth, and lets her tears trickle down her temples. “I told you it’d be good.” He pulls out. She shuts her eyes against the sensation. He lets go of her and moves off the bed and she just lies there. He goes into the bathroom and turns on the tap and she just lies there. She slings her arm over her eyes, the inside of her elbow quickly wet with tears. She feels sick. The scent of sex hanging thick in the air is making her sick. 

She forces herself to smile at him when he comes out of the bathroom. She nearly died when he took off her bra. She was so wet for him. She shouldn’t’ve acted like she didn’t want it. Should she have yelled, she wonders, as she disguises a gag as a cough.

When she gets home the next morning, she starts to spend a lot of time in bed. In the shower, scrubbing her skin until it’s red and painful to touch. Did she want it, she wonders, as she spends every night crying into her pillow. 

Rick knows. He figures it out easily, within a few days. The first semi-sober day he has, he picks up on it so quickly. The rest of the family is so oblivious that it makes him sick to his stomach. Morticia is in so much pain. 

Does no one pay attention to her, does no one care about her, Rick and Morticia wonder as they find each other in the garage that night. Rick looks up at her from nursing a fifth of vodka. He’s halfway through the bottle as the door closes behind her. She hesitates at the bottom of the steps into the garage for a moment, making silent eye contact with her grandfather. 

“I, uh…” she trails off, looks down at her slippers, and starts to turn to leave. “Sorry, n-nevermind.”

Rick stands up, one hand on the back of his desk chair to make sure he doesn’t stumble. “No, no, I was j-just about to, uh, to some geeereght you,” he says. “Come hang out with me. We haven’t talked in, uh, in a few days.”

Morticia turns back around, grateful for an invitation to stay with the only person who makes her feel safe anymore. “Th-thanks,” she mumbles. She moves to lean back against the counter, staring at the ground and shuffling her feet. He watches her body language. The way her arms stay crossed and her thighs never part when she walks. His left eye twitches and his grip on his chair tightens until his knuckles turn white. A cold feeling runs through his veins and he identifies it quickly as rage. 

“You’re gonna hate me for this, Morticia, but it needs to be done,” he says quietly. He bridges the gap between her and himself in two quick strides and grabs her upper arms just as she looks up in alarm. She struggles, her eyes wide and her stomach dropping, and opens her mouth to protest. Rick stares down into her eyes, his fingers tight around her arms. “Give me a name, Morticia. What is his name?” he commands. His voice is low and stern and so threatening. 

Her mouth is dry. Her arms hurt under his hands. Her eyes prick with tears and her tongue works its way around a lie. “I d-don’t know what you’re talking about…”

Rick’s jaw flexes. The old man looks positively mad with anger, and feels the same way. “Your rapist,” he spits, emphasis on the second word. Morticia physically recoils, struggling more. She’s sure she’s going to be sick. Rick stares down at her and doesn’t budge. His entire body feels cold. “Tell me his n-name.”

Morticia blinks hard and fat tears roll down her face. She shakes with fear and looks back down at the ground. She says nothing. 

Rick lets go of her right arm, to smack her across the face. She yelps loudly and cries harder, her body convulsing. She cradles her cheek in her hand. “Tell me!” Rick growls, his eye twitching again. “I- I’m fucking serious, Morticia!”

Morticia sobs out the name. Rick lets her go immediately and he’s starting up the ship by the time she looks up from the ground. He’s backing out and she chases him, begging him not to do anything, begging him not to go. 

Rick leaves anyway. The ship finds the kid easily. Don’t ask him how. He avoids the streetlights and parks in the mostly empty lot behind the club. He slams the door shut as he gets out of the car and his breaths are short as he storms inside. He recognized the kid’s name, and he knows he’s seen his face before. Morticia brought him around once or twice. 

And he does. He finds the kid leaned back against the wall, coolly talking to a girl between sips of cheap beer. Rick’s hands are gripping the kid’s shirt before either of them knows what’s happening. His beer is smacked out of his hand, probably by Rick. Rick doesn’t hear anyone protest, or see anyone try to stop him, but that’s probably because his vision is tunnelled and the only thing he can hear is his own heartbeat, pounding in his ears. He drags the flailing kid outside and throws him down into the street. 

The first punch is Rick’s immense pleasure. The second punch is Rick’s rage. The third is Rick’s pain. The fourth is bloody and bones break. Maybe the kid’s jawbone. Maybe Rick’s fingers. Maybe both. The kid can hardly breathe through his busted jaw. Does he want the kid to die, Rick wonders, as he keeps pummelling him. 

Rick stands up eventually, the cold in his veins turning downright icy. He stands on shaky legs and draws his pistol out of his coat. The kid on the ground can’t see it as Rick takes quick aim and shoots. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. 

Rick has been splattered with blood before. It usually made him warm and jittery. Excited him. This time, it makes him even more steeled. He kneels to scrape up a blood sample from the asphalt and he spits when he stands back up. He pushes his way through the crowd that had gathered around and gets back into the ship.

It’ll take a long time to fix this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on Tumblr @sin-aringiscaring for updates on my work or to request a fic :)


End file.
